Simplicities
by bj
Summary: "Either a woman has the right to choose or she doesn't. What's not simple about that?" Sam.


Disclaimer: 'The West Wing' belongs to Aaron Sorkin and his pals. Kelly is my own invention.  
  
Author's Note: Quote from "Purify by Fire" by Sid Screamed, on their Emotor album. For Carole, whose computer I wrote this on and whose music I was listening to. Many thanks to Luna, for a much-needed attack of the beta[bully].  
  
  
  
Simplicities  
  
By BJ Garrett  
  
  
  
it's all you, it's all you,  
  
i'm made for you, from you,  
  
and you are just simplicities.  
  
  
  
Kelly finds out to slow piano music. A quiet phone call followed by her own silence and the velvet touch of hammer to string. She turns from the receiver lying sideways on the table and looks out the window. Blurry pinpoints of headlights through the rain. Her eyes are dry, her hands are tingling.  
  
She feels the ivory against her fingertips and closes her eyes.  
  
It looks like rain. It looks like rain.  
  
  
  
They walk together out of the musicians' entrance at the Center. They stand in the darkness just outside the door of a closed coffee shop, her hand still clutched in the sleeve of his overcoat.  
  
"Sam."  
  
"You were great tonight." He leans close, wanting to prove to her he doesn't just care about his job.  
  
"I'm pregnant."  
  
If he is thinking whatever he is thinking is unreadable to her. "Okay."  
  
Just blue, watching, and the rain starts up again, above their heads. Like angels wrestling on the taut canvas.  
  
  
  
"So they're introducing a rider stipulating that abortions cannot be covered by the Health Act," Sam says, looking at the papers in his hands.  
  
Toby shrugs. "Yeah. That's it."  
  
"Okay." He stands, tossing the papers on the table. "I can't talk about this right now, so I'm going to go."  
  
He is gone before Josh or Toby can think of anything to say.  
  
  
  
Kelly's number is still tucked under the corner of his phone, blue veins on yellow post-it, where he left it after they made the date for last night.  
  
"Of course. You should. Yeah. If you."  
  
"Why are you calling?" She sounds tired.  
  
"I thought. Maybe we should talk about this."  
  
"It's none of your business. I just."  
  
He meant well. The rain was rivers, rapids, swirling down the window, and looked so simple. It was so simple: his fingertips brutal against the glass, watching women hurry past outside. Pressing until his nails bend back. "I'm sorry."  
  
"You. You're sorry." A muffled sound that could be a laugh or a sob, despite the cliche.  
  
"If you. You should. I mean."  
  
"Yeah. I think. I think I will."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
  
  
"It's not going to pass, of course," Josh says, standing in his office doorway.  
  
Turning away from the doorway in his chair, bending down, head between his knees, fingers running over the raised titles of books, books, words. "I can't talk about this, okay?"  
  
"You kind of have to."  
  
Just because it's legal doesn't mean she has to. It's none of his business. It's not his fault. "Why?"  
  
Why. Because she didn't make that guy wear a condom one time, and she'd forgotten to take her pill, and the world sucks. Why not?  
  
"It's...your job?"  
  
"I'm doing my job." It wasn't him. Why does he care? She's not his responsibility. "I'm writing the stump speech for Delaware."  
  
"We're not going to be in Delaware until April. You can write it later. We need to talk about this now."  
  
"It's not going to pass, you said."  
  
"No, it's not."  
  
"Then why do we need to talk about it?"  
  
"Because...because we do. Because now is better than later, when the President gets asked what he thinks of attaching a rider to the Health Act stipulating that abortion cannot be federally legislated. Because we have to talk about it before he gets asked. You know that."  
  
He's tired of words. There are too many explanations, and his politics and his sensibilities are crying in each other's arms. "Talk to Toby, talk to Leo, talk to CJ. Talk to anybody but me. I can't do this right now."  
  
Josh says something else. Sam ignores him, fumbling for words, letters, sounds like speech. When he looks up again, the doorway is empty.  
  
  
  
"Of course I support you. I mean, it's your body." Her forehead creases in annoyance at that excuse, and he rubs the back of his neck slowly. "You do...you do whatever...I support you. Of course."  
  
"I'm going to do it." She holds his gaze, daring him to backpedal.  
  
He doesn't really want to. He catches a glimpse of a baby's face over a shoulder. "I don't. I don't think."  
  
"Sam."  
  
She knows what she's going to do. An exhalation of a breeze, sorrowful, full of the scent of autumn's dying, ruffles their hair. She only wants him not to say she's wrong. Anything but that.  
  
He doesn't know if she's wrong. He's signed the petitions, and he's written the rhetoric. He thought it was simple. "God. Kelly. God."  
  
"You support me," she says for him.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
What else can he do?  
  
  
  
He keeps the coffee machine in his sights, a goal at the end of the hall, acting for all the world like he isn't thinking about it.  
  
Toby emerges unexpectedly from CJ's office and takes a new cup from the stack. Before Sam can turn and retreat, Toby looks up.  
  
"Sam."  
  
"Yes, Toby?"  
  
"What are you working on?"  
  
So much. Not enough words. The dictionary, God, Toby, it's empty. "Delaware."  
  
"Delaware is in April, Sam. The rider is in three days. Guess what you're supposed to be working on?"  
  
  
  
"They're gonna make you wait, you know."  
  
Kelly fingers a business card, her eyes search the mess of pamphlets spread over his dashboard, looking for the clinic's address. "I won't change my mind."  
  
"They'll tell you-"  
  
"Stop it, Sam."  
  
He's trying to drive, so he agrees. "Yeah."  
  
"I thought you were...I thought you were okay. With this, I mean."  
  
Was he? When he said 'okay' that night, did he mean it? Or was it an involuntary response, like swearing when you stab yourself with a paring knife? He knows he should be okay. "I am."  
  
"Then why are you acting like my mother?"  
  
"Don't be. Don't. Don't get all belligerent."  
  
"Belligerent. Yeah. Never date a writer."  
  
He almost tells her not to be facetious, but checks himself at the last second. "Kelly."  
  
"Sam, please. I've made up my mind."  
  
"You made it up before you were even sure you were." He leaves the end of the sentence short, clips that word off, because soon she won't be, and that's the way she wants it. He is aware that there is no chance they will ever have a late dinner after a performance again. This has ruined it for them, so why does he care?  
  
"What's. What. Sam. What's your point? Please."  
  
He's not even sure what he meant by that. He doesn't really think she's doing it for political reasons, does he? Not everybody lives their lives for the press release, for the sound bite, for the proof.  
  
  
  
Toby puts his hands palm-down on a white reflection and glares at Sam. "Either a woman has the right to choose or she doesn't. What's not simple about that?"  
  
"The choosing." His voice nearly breaks and he stops. The pen drops from his hand. A moment later, he says, "Toby. The choosing...it's not that simple."  
  
His lease on anonymity and reckless disregard for policy initiatives is up. Toby nods. "What's wrong?"  
  
Sam gathers himself together cursorily, runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. "I'm just saying. It's not that simple. And I can't talk about this right now, so I'm gonna go."  
  
  
  
"Sam."  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Sam."  
  
"Kelly?"  
  
"Sam."  
  
"I'm here."  
  
"Oh, God. Oh. Oh. Sam."  
  
"It's okay."  
  
"No. No. It's. It's not that...God. It's not that simple."  
  
"I know. I know."  
  
  
  
It looks like rain.  
  
He holds her hand like a friend would and listens to angels wrestling on the canvas.  
  
  
  
End. 


End file.
